The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1887-11-19

could never weary.
When my child was about seventeen
years old she made the acquaintance OF
man named Robert Browne, at the house
of a friend. did not like him at all, and
l would rather have kept her from him
altogether; but accidently or Intentionally
(perhaps little of both) she saw him much
oftner than 1 had any idea. He was
bold, determined looking man of about
thirty, with a certain dash about him
which Margaret found very pleasant. But
l doubted him, and stories, too, reached
my ears which confirmed my doubts. L
had already told my child plainly what my
opinion of Mr.. Browne was, when, one
day, he came to me, with her promise
already gained, to ask my consent to their
marriage.
refused-at once and decidedly-tell-
ing Margaret afterward that, as She was
but child STILL | had decided the matter
without consulting her; that when she was
older and knew more of the world she
would thank me for having done so. Then
l looked into her face for her approving
submission; instead of which | read there
an expression totally new to her and to me
an expression of anger and defiance.
] Nevertheless took her in my arms, ands
kissing her, I laid strict command onher
never TO speak to Robert Browne again.
| My poor little Maggie One morning,
a week or so after, | missed the sound of her
voice talking to her bantams near my bed
room window; and on my breakfast plate was
a note telling me not to seek her or be un-
easy about her. She found, she said, that
she and Robert could not live without each
other, and so they had gone away together.
They would be married, perhaps, by the
time l read her letter. She made sure of
my forgiveness, and she promised that by
and by they would come back and see me.
Although the cruel words seemed to burn
themselves into my brain as l glanced at
them, yet l had to read them time after
time before grasped their meaning. l
was stupefed When at last the hideous
truth broke upon me; when realized that
my cherished child, for whom l would
have willingly died, had left me to go away
she scarcely knew how, where, or with
whom-my anger overpowered every feel
ing, and vowed that forgiveness from me
they should never have, and that neither
of them should ever cross the threshold of
Lingdene again.
They were terrible days that followed !
| walked about as one in dream from
which one longs to awake; but for me the
awakening was only an increasing consci-
business of my trouble. Wherever 1 turn
ed-in the woods or by the sea, in the
house or in the garden-everything recall
ed my lost Maggie, every remembrance
brought sharper pang, and my anger was
even more bitter than my grief.
About month after she had left me
Maggie wrote For moment l held the
letter in my hand. saw that it came
from a foreign land; but l did not even
look to see from what country it came.
For moment only | hesitated, then 1
thrust it unopened between the bars of the
CRATE 1t burned away to white ash, and |
vowed once more that so deceitful and un-
grateful child deserved no forgiveness.
For the future l had no daughter. | shut
up Lingdene, kept my movements pro-
found secret, and went into an exile where
I might be unknown, unquestioned, un-
pitied.
So found myself in Carchester, where
1 gradually fell into regular, quiet way of
life, finding some pleasure in digging,
planting, and pruning in my narrow strip
of garden But the old wound was still
very tender, for the years that slipped
away brought me no comfort.
One day last May, after Number Five
had stood empty for week or so, there was
commotion of arrival. knew that
every inhabitant of the terrace-except
myself-was looking out of window to
scrutinize the new comers; that was the
welcome usually accorded on such occa-
sions. l went and seated myself on my
garden seat under the trellis of jessamine
Gloire de Dion roses, saying to myself, as
l filled my pipe:
II shall know enough of my new neigh
bors before long; any curiosity L may have
will be more than satisfied only too soon.
Presently over my garden wall came the
sound of a childish voice, in a high-pitched
treble.
"Ah, this is the garden See, Janet,
this is the garden-quite a nice little
garden to play in, and there are scarcely
any flower borders in it, so | shall te able
to run about as much as like, and build a
house for Bridget and Ellen in the corner.
And yet 1 think it is pity there are SO few
flowers; it would be nice to get bunch for
dear nanny, don't you think, Janet
Isn't it pity she is so knocked up with
the journey? Do you think she will be i'll
again p
81 don't know, Miss Daisy; I'm sure
hope not.
''Oh, so do l, Janet; it was so horrible
in London when she was so near dying.
Didn't you feel unhappy"
eyes, Miss Daisy, but perhaps the
change will do her good; you see the doctor
ordered her to come here. Now I'm in
hurry; must so in"
"0h, Janet, dear!" very coaxingly,
"don't go in just yet, l do 50 want to stay
here
"No, Miss Daisy, 1 really can't, there's
so much to be done. must begin to un-
pack"
Anu may heip gay yes, theiO
dear, Janet. won't drop anything, or
make mess of anything, or ask a lot of
questions. May l Janet? | won't get in
the way"
And then the child and the woman went
in.
"a family of children" 1 said to my
SELF "That means an incessant trampling
up and down stairs, an iucessant uprOar in
the garden, piano practice, and goodness
knows what, and if they all have voices as
shrill as Miss Daisy-well, Heaven protect
mel"
That evening, however, my dread of the
numerous family was relieved. My old
housekeeper told me, as she waited on me
at dinner, that the newcomers at Number
Five were a widow lady, with one little
girl and maid. The lady, she added,
had been very i'll, and had been ordered to
Charchester for her health.
"And how did you learn all that Simp-
son ?" l asked sardonically. II suppose